


Writing Graffiti on Your Body

by scintilla10



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla10/pseuds/scintilla10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: <i>J2, body writing</i> at <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/">blindfold_spn</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing Graffiti on Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ani diFranco.

_01._

Jensen was smiling politely, holding the restaurant door open for a pair of middle-aged couples, and pointedly ignoring Jared who was grinning gleefully at his Southern good manners, when someone behind them said, breathlessly, "Oh my _god_."

Jensen recognized the tone of restrained and giddy excitement immediately. He raised his eyebrows at Jared, then put on his best public grin and turned around.

Three girls were staring wide-eyed at them. The one on the end was clutching the sleeve of the girl next to her like she might fall over any minute.

"Hi," Jared said brightly.

There was an excited babble of gushing compliments and professions of _favorite show_ and _number one fan_. Jensen thanked them, hoping he came across as gracious. Jared, as always, managed to smile at them with real and genuine pleasure.

Then the girl on the end said, hopefully, "Could you sign an autograph for me?"

So Jensen signed the front page of one girl's school notebook, a page torn out of another girl's address book, and a frayed-edged postcard of the Vancouver skyline unearthed in the last girl's overflowing red purse. When he finished scrawling his name for the third time and handed the postcard back over, Jared was laughing and still struggling to sign the single sheet of paper for the girl on the end, who was thankfully still upright. He'd already ripped a hole through the middle of it with the tip of the pen.

"Hey, man, do me a favor and turn around," he said, and three heads swiveled immediately back to Jensen.

Jensen felt something prickle up and down his spine, but he rolled his eyes for the audience and presented Jared with his back. The heel of Jared's hand, pressed against Jensen's shoulder blade, felt warm through the thin cotton shirt he was wearing. It took less than a minute for Jared to write a short greeting and sign his name, and Jensen only felt it as a faint tickling pressure. But for an endless moment, with the weight of Jared's hand on his back and the crackle of the paper loud in his ears, he imagined he could feel the imprint of Jared's name seeping through the material of his shirt and sinking deep into his skin. The thought made him hot and itchy and distracted, and even after Jared had lifted his hand away, Jensen couldn't take his eyes off the way Jared casually twirled the pen in his fingers before handing it back to the girl with the red purse.

The girls giggled and thanked them. Jensen twitched his shoulder blade to shrug off the phantom feeling and snagged the handle of the door before Jared could try to open it for him.

"Time for curry?" Jared said, grinning like he knew exactly what Jensen was doing.

"Yeah," Jensen said.

  
 _02._

During a break from shooting, someone gave Jared a Sharpie. Actually, Jensen suspected he'd stolen it from somewhere. Most of the crew knew, ever since the incident with the leftover salami, duct tape, and Rachel the PA's sunglasses, that neither Misha nor Jared should be trusted with permanent markers.

"What, are you going to make a 'kick me' sign or something?" Jensen asked drily.

Jared smirked brightly at him. Then, before Jensen could think to react, he reached out and gripped Jensen's wrist loosely with one hand. With the other, he pushed up the sleeve of Dean’s leather jacket and exposed Jensen's forearm. Jensen could smell the sharp stench of the marker, pungent in his nostrils, and he thought he should definitely be objecting right about now. But something stopped him from saying a word as Jared touched it to his skin and started carefully drawing a smiley face near Jensen’s elbow, the tip of the marker dragging just a little against his muscle and tickling the hair on his arm.

It felt like it took Jared an excruciatingly long time to make the two periods of eyes, the parenthesis of a mouth, the circle of a face. Jensen didn’t breathe the whole time the pen was pressed to his skin.

“Make-up’s gonna be mad at you,” he said, his voice sounding almost normal, when Jared capped the pen with satisfaction.

“You don’t have a nude scene or anything today, do you?” Jared said, shooting him a grin.

Jensen didn’t, of course. He was in long sleeves and leather jacket for the entire day's scene, never mind the hot weather.

He felt the smiley face on his arm all day, even though he couldn't see it, a pulsing mark of heat constantly reminding him _Jared Jared Jared._

  
 _03._

"Don't forget the beer," Jensen said.

Jared made a sound of disbelief, muffled slightly by the sweatshirt he was pulling over his head, one-handed. He fumbled blindly for his car keys with the other.

"Dude. I won’t forget the _beer_."

"You might. You did that time Chris was here."

"Whatever. That was different," Jared said.

He didn't look at Jensen and his voice sounded weird -- and this time it couldn't be blamed on the sweatshirt. Jensen swallowed.

"Give me your list," he said, snatching a ballpoint off the kitchen counter and holding out his hand.

"It's already in the car. Don't be such a douchebag. I'm going to buy the fucking beer."

Jensen reached out and snagged Jared's hand, warm and firm between his fingers. Jared jerked a little at first, but then he made a disgruntled noise and fell still. The air seemed suddenly heavier and thicker around them, and Jensen felt anticipation thrumming through his veins like a rolling drumbeat. He brushed his thumb gently along the crease of Jared's wrist before turning his hand over and pressing ballpoint's tip gently on the skin of Jared's palm. The tracing out of each letter felt slow and deliberate, far more intense than a simple addition to a shopping list should be. It sent shivers arcing through Jensen, branching and fluttering across his whole body as though the movement of the pen clutched in his fingers, when pressed to Jared's skin, was hardwired to every nerve he had.

When he finished the _r_ , he didn't let go, but bent his head to blow gently on the wet ink, staring at the way his handwriting was seared onto the fragile skin of Jared's palm. Jared's fingers curled, an involuntary spasm, and Jensen heard him draw in a hitched breath. The noise settled heavily in Jensen's chest and pooled low in his gut.

Jensen let go and raised his head. Jared's eyes flickered away from his, down to the mark on his hand. He curled his hand protectively into a fist. "Beer," he said, his voice rough. "I won’t forget."

When he met Jensen's eyes again, he was smiling.

  
 _04._

There was a mole on Jared's neck, in the hollow of his throat, just above his collarbone. Jensen sometimes stared at it when Jared was sprawled asleep on his bed, his hair in his eyes and several of his limbs thrown casually in Jensen's direction. Sleep was one of the only times Jared was actually still and Jensen could look at him uninterrupted.

Jensen used to do expert-level sudoku puzzles when he couldn't sleep. Now he thought about painting words onto Jared's body, _smile_ and _strength_ and _Texas_ and _warmth_ and _everything_ and _us_. He wanted to use that mark on Jared's long, smooth neck not as a period at the end of a sentence but as a blinking curser. Inspiration rather than an ending. As if he could spell out everything he was feeling, everything he was, and feed it directly to Jared's heart.

He reached out to touch the mole gently, hesitantly, just the tip of his index finger against the warmth of Jared's skin. From here the possibilities were endless. Jared's body was a canvas in front of him -- not blank or empty, but bright and open and alive.

Hesitantly, Jensen let his finger drift down from the mole in a long diagonal line, almost to Jared's armpit, feeling the shape of every tendon and bone and muscle under his fingertip. The circle he slowly traced next to it skirted carefully around Jared's nipple, a lingering curve across his chest.

Jared's breathing changed suddenly and he blew out a loud breath into the stillness of the bedroom. Jensen stopped, his finger trembling, his heart skittering loudly in his ears.

He pulled his finger back and tucked his hand underneath his head. Jared settled back into sleep and Jensen went back to watching.

He fell asleep imagining how his half-word would look on Jared's torso when written in something more permanent than finger-tracings. How any of Jensen's words would look spilling from his own hand and marked carefully into Jared's golden skin.

 _05._

"One of my high school girlfriends used to like to paint my toenails," Jared said loudly over the rerun of M*A*S*H. He sprawled onto the other end of the couch, loose and lazy and relaxed.

Jensen raised his eyebrow in Jared's direction. "Look, the jokes here are way too easy, man," he said.

"She'd even write things on the top of my feet with that tiny brush thing," Jared went on, and Jensen stiffened, hating the embarrassing direction the conversation abruptly seemed to be going. "Like, lyrics and stuff. Rage Against the Machine, usually." He laughed a little. "We were totally badass."

He thumped his feet onto Jensen's lap and wiggled his toes invitingly. Because he was expected to, Jensen made a face and shoved them off. Undeterred, Jared tucked his toes under Jensen's thigh and grinned widely at him.

Jensen flipped his gaze back to the television and ignored him.

"Just so you know, it's okay," Jared said.

Jensen definitely did not look at him. "What is," he said flatly.

"Anything you want," Jared said, and tossed a black pen in Jensen's lap.

  
 _06._

“I love the taste of your skin,” Jared said.

Jensen shuddered as he realized Jared was tracing a _J_ with his tongue onto the soft skin of Jensen’s belly. Jared licked the rest of his name into Jensen’s body, too: the fat-bellied curves of the letters with wide swooping arcs of his tongue, the long straight lines with slow wet stripes.

Jensen was shivering when Jared was finished. His whole body felt alight and on edge, his cock heavy, his hands twitching to reciprocate epics into Jared's flushed and sweaty skin.

Jared’s saliva cooled as the evening air hit it, drying into Jensen’s skin and marking him invisibly, indelibly, with Jared.


End file.
